


just promise me we'll be all right

by ThunderstormsandMemories



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Fix-It, Happy Ending, M/M, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderstormsandMemories/pseuds/ThunderstormsandMemories
Summary: The other survivors, Osric among them, looked to Horatio, as if he should have the answers, like Marcellus and Bernardo had looked to him: you’re in college, you talk to the ghost. You’re in college, you explain to the invading Norwegian prince why our throne room looks like a battlefield.
or,
Ophelia was murdered, Hamlet is gay, trans, and bipolar, and somehow Hamlet and Horatio manage to build themselves a happy ending out of the remains of a tragedy.





	just promise me we'll be all right

**Author's Note:**

> None of AO3's warnings apply but there are still plenty of content warnings that do apply, including some discussion of: suicide, self-harm, dysphoria, Hamlet having some internalized shit to work out, and mentions of canon deaths.

“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Hamlet was pacing now, his footsteps echoing like the beat of a war drum, and Horatio was afraid. Looking back, he knew how they’d gotten here, and looking forward he couldn’t see a way for this to end with both of them alive. Maybe their lives were simple once, or maybe he was just too young to know any better, but everything has certainly fallen apart now, becoming tangled in this web of lies that strangled Hamlet like a noose. And there was nothing Horatio could do to stop it. Hamlet would fight Laertes. Claudius would win. “I should have seen… I, of all people, should have noticed.” He paused, swallowed, and then spoke again, his voice flat and terrible. “I thought I was closer to that point than she was.” And then he lapsed into a silence that was even more terrible, and Horatio couldn’t stand it.

“My lord, she didn’t kill herself,” he said. He’d stayed silent this long, afraid that the truth would cause Hamlet to do something rash, attempt to avenge her as well as his father and die in the unsuccessful attempt. And there was no good way to bring up something like this.

Hamlet stopped pacing. “How do you know?”

“I saw her,” he said, quietly, closing his eyes and seeing the scene play out in front of him, helpless to stop it. Hamlet sat beside him, and Horatio took a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. “She was upset, when she left the court, so I followed her. But she was too far ahead of me, and the King must have planned this, must have had people waiting outside to follow her because they caught up to her before I did.” It was hard, now, to keep his mind on the present instead of slipping back to relive that moment, and he reached for Hamlet’s hand and gripped it tightly as if the two of them could somehow keep each other grounded. That was his job, to be the anchor, to be sensible enough for both of them, and no matter what he had witnessed, they could not afford for him to fall apart now. “She did drown,” he said. She drowned, and he had been too slow, too far away, to do anything about it. “They weren’t lying about that. But it wasn’t by her own design, and it wasn’t by accident. It was murder.”

Hamlet’s grip on his hand tightened, and his other fist was clenched in anger. “Why?” he said, the word tearing out of him with painful desperation. “Why her?”

“She knew too much,” said Horatio. “And the King knew that she knew.”

“I’ll kill him,” said Hamlet, standing abruptly, wrenching his hand from Horatio’s. “He’ll die for this.”

“Not if he kills you first,” said Horatio. “My lord, you must be cautious.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Hamlet, resuming his pacing, his hands visibly shaking. His mood had changed after they’d seen the ghost, swinging from hopeless lethargy to this violent energy. Horatio was used to this, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about the consequences, even if Hamlet wasn’t. Then again, Horatio always worried. “I’m nothing, just another liar, another coward who gets people around him killed.”

“Ophelia’s death is not your fault,” Horatio said, but Hamlet shook his head emphatically.

“Why else would she be involved at all?” he demanded. “If I killed her father, if I hadn’t broken her heart… I never should have courted her in the first place. It was foolish, selfish, a farce of a relationship to cover my own disgrace, and it got her killed. How is that _not_ my fault?”

“I won’t say you didn’t wrong her,” said Horatio carefully, and Hamlet nodded, opening his mouth to agree, to deprecate himself even further, but Horatio spoke over him. “You had valid reasons. You could have been honest with her, and you could have been kinder, but none of that is unforgivable, and none of that is why she died. She died because of the King, and he is the one to blame. Not you. Remember that.”

“The king,” said Hamlet. “And if I had killed him when I had the chance, Ophelia would still be alive.” That was technically true, and Hamlet always did care so much more about the rules of religion than Horatio did, but sticking to one’s principles, especially one’s moral scruples against murder, did not make one weak, no matter how Horatio personally might feel about the Catholic Church. “Some son I turned out to be. I can’t even avenge my father with direct orders from his spirit. And I know- _I know_ \- that how much of a man you are doesn’t depend on how well you can kill, but it’s so hard to make that feel true when your father’s disappointment follows you even after his death. And when Claudius mocks my grief as _unmanly_ and the rest of the court laughs like they’re in on a joke, is it because they think men shouldn’t show emotions, or do they know that at birth my parents thought me a girl, or that I couldn’t be the daughter my mother wanted, which was almost fine because my father needed an heir, but then I couldn’t be a proper son either, and even if they don’t know for sure, they’ll have heard the rumors, especially since courting Ophelia brought back the speculation about Laertes. But _he_ doesn’t have his strength and honor doubted at every turn, doesn’t have to deal with talk of weakness and shame and being less of a man and _madness_.” He stopped short, gasping for breath, as if his thoughts outpaced his words and his body needed a moment to catch up, and then said bitterly, “And the worst thing is, what if they’re right.”

“My lord,” said Horatio. “Hamlet. They don’t know you.”

“Can anyone know anyone, even themself?” said Hamlet bitterly. His voice shook slightly, and he was biting his lip to keep from crying, but he might have fool almost everyone into thinking he was just playing the cynic.

“I know you,” said Horatio, standing, moving toward him, and Hamlet, startled, let him take his hand. “And whatever they might say, you are no coward. You’re the strongest person I know, and as for the rest of it, you know who you are, and none of it is anyone else’s business.”

“I know,” said Hamlet, resting his head on Horatio’s shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Any time,” said Horatio, combing his fingers through Hamlet’s hair, his other arm around Hamlet’s back, and Hamlet closed his eyes and leaned closer. Standing like this, so close, with his arm around him, Horatio could feel how thin he had become, could feel his hollow ribs under his ill-fitting mourning clothes, all trembling and sharp edges that he too often turned in on himself. “We could leave,” he said, almost to himself. “We could go anywhere, as long as it’s away from here.”

“You’re right,” said Hamlet, and Horatio felt hope rising in his heart, as if for the first time seeing a way this could end without one of them dead. “You should go.” His hope was snuffed out just as quickly as it had awoken, and before he could argue, Hamlet said, “You should get out of here, while you still can. Whatever happens to me, I want to know that there’s at least one person I won’t lose.”

“Not without you,” said Horatio, and he heard Hamlet’s breath catch, as if he wasn’t expecting to hear that, as if after all they’d been through he still expected Horatio to leave at the slightest opportunity. “I’ll be here for you as long as you’ll have me.”

Hamlet stepped back and held Horatio’s face between his hands, his fingers cool and his touch unbearably gentle against Horatio’s cheeks. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper but rising with each word he spoke. “There’s no one I would rather have with me, no one I trust more. You do know how much I love you?” He was speaking quickly by the end, with such an intensity that Horatio felt like his words were burning into him.

He hadn’t known, actually, not really. He knew Hamlet cared about him; how could he not, with the compliments he was always being paid, all the affection that Hamlet could possibly show him while staying just on the safe side of propriety? But that was the problem. There was only so much Hamlet could do, as the Prince of Denmark and heir to the throne, as someone whowas just barely acknowledged as a man and would need to marry a princess to secure an alliance, who could not afford to give his father and now his uncle an excuse to disown him or at least write him out of the line of succession. And Horatio had long since resigned himself to watching him marry someone else, supporting him as a best friend and nothing else, hoping that it could at least be Ophelia, someone he knew, liked, and trusted, and knowing that she wasn’t well-connected enough and it would likely be a princess or at the very least the daughter of a powerful noble house. He could have tried to pretend he didn’t feel the way he did, but even he knew a lost cause when he saw one, and he could no more stop loving Hamlet than he could explain why the Earth went around the sun. But he had always stopped just short of declarations of love or talk of the future, until now, and Horatio was dizzy with it.

“I’ll be here for you,” he repeated, pushing Hamlet’s hair back from his face, letting his hand rest on the back of Hamlet’s neck.

“This is almost definitely a trap,” said Hamlet, leaning forward, pushing their foreheads together. “I’m not leaving until my uncle is dead, but I don’t know if either of us will make it out alive, and I can’t make you take that risk.”

Horatio brushed a kiss against the corner of Hamlet’s mouth. “You’re worth dying for.”

“And you’re worth living for,” said Hamlet, dragging him down into a proper kiss.

\---

He’d known it would be dangerous, he’d fretted over this exact outcome ever since Hamlet had returned, but no amount of worrying could have prepared him for the reality of it: Gertrude, Laertes, and the king, all dead, Hamlet sprawled on the floor, hands covered in Laertes’s blood, too weak to lift his head as the king’s poison coursed through his veins. He held Hamlet in his arms, stroking his hair, trying to keep him as comfortable as possible, making sure he didn’t die alone. And then he had a thought. The king was many things, but incautious was not one of them. He had to have an antidote on him, just in case, and as long as Hamlet lived long enough for Horatio to find it…

Claudius hadn’t been king for very long, and he had gained the throne through murder, but it still disrespectful to search a dead man’s pockets, especially a king’s. He had been correct, though, that the king wouldn’t risk using poison without carrying an antidote, and he had been lucky that Hamlet had held on until he found it.

Hamlet could barely keep his eyes open, but he managed to choke down the antidote, and Horatio held his hand tightly and waited anxiously for any change, for the color slowly returning to his face and his breathing evening out, and when he lifted his head Horatio was so relieved that a laugh burst out of him and he hugged him carefully, listening to the sound of his still-beating heart. Which was, of course, when the door was broken down by an invading army.

He stood, putting himself between Hamlet and the intruders, wishing Hamlet’s foil was within reach instead of embedded in his uncle’s chest.

The soldiers who entered burst in as if they expected a fight, and Horatio counted more than a few shocked expressions on their faces when they saw the bodies instead. Fortinbras was among them, sword drawn, and he opened his mouth to speak, to make some impressive declaration, but instead he said, “What happened here?”

The other survivors, Osric among them, looked to Horatio, as if he should have the answers, like Marcellus and Bernardo had looked to him: _you’re in college, you talk to the ghost. You’re in college, you explain to the invading Norwegian prince why our throne room looks like a battlefield_.

“My lord, the king and Queen are dead,” he said. “What else do you wish to know?” The closer Fortinbras walked, the more tense Horatio became. He didn’t stand a chance at defeating Fortinbras in a fight, especially unarmed and outnumbered, and by now there were soldiers at all the exits. But that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for them to be killed.

“What of the Prince?”

“He is alive,” said Horatio, sounding braver than he felt, “and it is in all of our interests that he remains so.”

Fortinbras sheathed his sword and held out his hands, palms open, as if that would convince anyone that he wasn’t a threat when he still had armed soldiers at his command. “I bear no ill will toward the Prince,” he said. “All I want is the throne.”

“Then take it,” said Hamlet weakly. “You’ll get no objections from me.”

\---

Fortinbras had given his word that Hamlet would not be harmed, and Horatio theoretically trusted him, but that didn’t stop him from refusing to leave Hamlet’s bedside, even to sleep, and he was watching Hamlet so intently, listening for any change in his breathing that might indicate him improving or not, that he didn’t notice when Fortinbras entered the room.

"Such loyalty,” said Fortinbras, and Horatio jumped. “I could use an advisor like you, but I don’t suppose you’d consider staying in Denmark.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Horatio. “I mean, no. You’re correct.”

“You still follow him, even though he is no longer heir to the throne? I hope this does not mean either of you plan to raise a force to take back my crown.” He said it so casually, _my crown_ , comfortable with it in a way Hamlet had never been, and Horatio bit his lip to avoid saying something rash in his anger.

“No, my lord,” said Horatio, struggling to keep his voice pleasant and even. “I will keep my word, and he will keep his.”

“Are you sure there’s no possibility of you staying in Denmark? Your country could use someone like you at court.”

“No, my lord,” he said again, and thought Fortinbras fixed him with a knowing look neither of them said what he was thinking, what Fortinbras had likely guessed: that no amount of nationalistic appeals would convince Horatio to stay, because his loyalty was not to Denmark, nor even to Hamlet his Prince. His loyalty was to Hamlet his friend, and there was nothing left for either of them in Elsinore except, for now, each other.

Fortinbras pulled up a chair next to Horatio, waiting for Hamlet to wake up, and when he did, the first thing he did was push himself into a pained semblance of a sitting position and call for Horatio.

“My lord,” he said, meaning _my love_ , and Hamlet reached out and squeezed his hand. “I’m here.”

“I know,” said Hamlet. “Thank you.” And then, still holding Horatio’s hand, he turned his attention toward Fortinbras. “What is it you need of me?”

“Your word,” said Fortinbras, “that you will renounce all claims to the throne of Denmark, and never challenge the legitimacy of my rule.”

“You have it,” said Hamlet, “although there are those who would say that my word is worth less than nothing. I did kill the one who called himself my father.”

“It was no less than honor demanded of you,” said Fortinbras, “and regardless, you are still heir to the throne.”

Horatio knew he should say something, that it was his duty as a subject of Denmark to intervene and prevent the throne of his country from passing to a foreign invader, but he stayed silent. Hamlet could have been a decent king, given time and different circumstances. And he could still have a chance, if he stayed in Elsinore and ruled in Fortinbras’s name, as little more than a puppet. Some might say that was the only honorable choice, or that it was best for Denmark, but Horatio didn’t know or care what was best for Denmark anymore. Hamlet was not going to die here. This place had taken enough from him; it would not take his life as well.

Hamlet trusted him, enough that if Horatio told him that staying was the right thing, he would stay, and he would be torn apart by political intrigue and guilt. And more importantly, it should be his decision, as few things in his life had ever been.

“Not anymore,” said Hamlet. “And I expect you to agree, before witnesses, that we will be allowed to leave Denmark alive and after that you will leave us alone. We no longer pose any threat to your rule, and we will not break our word. See that you do not break yours.” Even half-sitting, half-lying propped up on pillows, still pale from the poison, he was impressive, too weak to stand but strong enough to put an edge of steel in his voice, and Horatio shivered.

“We agree to those terms,” said Fortinbras, “and we will keep our word and ensure your safety.”

“Safety for myself, and for him,” said Hamlet, nodding toward Horatio, and Fortinbras nodded.

“We agree,” he said again. “You will be safe as long as you stay out of Denmark.”

Hamlet nodded and closed his eyes, and Horatio, feeling some sort of respect was due to the man who held their lives in his hands, said, “Thank you, my lord.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Hamlet distractedly. “Now, please, leave us.” He hadn’t let go of Horatio’s hand for the entire exchange.

\---

Happiness was a strange feeling to get used to. It started small, with Horatio’s hand in his, with a rented room near the university (not Wittenberg, where too many people knew his name) paid for with the money from selling a few of his family heirlooms, stolen from the palace on their way out, with waking up to the sound of people on the street below instead of gossip and cruelty and intrigue. It wasn’t perfect. He still searched for the faces of ghosts in every crowd, still had mornings when getting out of bed was more effort than it was worth and nights when he couldn’t sleep and paced until the downstairs neighbors complained, too full of any emotion, every emotion, to stay still. He still flinched at every sudden noise or movement and still slipped from rage to euphoria to grief at the slightest provocation. He wasn’t fine, and probably would never be, but he could be happy.

And there were moments, more and more frequently, when he caught himself feeling hopeful too.

He’d had a plan for his life, even when he couldn’t see himself surviving long enough to fulfill it. Not his plan, but a plan that had been so deep ingrained in him that it may as well be carved into his bones, and he still mourned the loss of that future, the death of Hamlet the prince. He didn’t have a plan anymore. Instead he had this: the sun setting over rooftops as he leaned out the window to feel the summer breeze on his face, not thinking about plots or spies or revenge, waiting for Horatio to come home. And it was that thought, the knowledge that this was home, that there was somewhere he belonged, somewhere he felt real and safe, where he could be himself and not have to worry about privacy and pretending, that brought tears to his eyes. They were far enough from Denmark that no one would recognize him as the former crown prince with all that meant about him and his reputation, and it was common enough for young men studying at the university to rent rooms together to save money that no one looked too closely at their relationship.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the door creak open, and he jumped and scraped his elbow on the window sill when he heard Horatio say his name. He turned, trying to wipe away his tears, and Horatio approached him gently. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” said Hamlet. “I’m just… I’m happy.” He closed the rest of the distance between himself and Horatio, throwing his arms around him. Horatio, his face lit up by a relieved smile, wiped away the rest of his tears with his rough, ink-stained fingers. He kissed him deeply, Horatio’s hands pressed into his back like when they were younger and more desperate and it felt like it was only Horatio’s touch holding him together.

One of his hands traced the outline of the corset hidden under his shirt, and he said, “How long?”

“Less than an hour,” said Hamlet. “You don’t need to worry.” _Anymore_ , he didn’t say. He didn’t need to remind Horatio of when he had bound himself too tightly because his own body was more of a torment than even his family or his mind, when he doubled over in pain after laughing too hard, when he couldn’t walk faster than a stroll without wheezing, when he bruised his ribs and drank too much and didn’t leave his room until they healed and he could bind again. There were still days when he was tempted, when he wasn’t sure if he was putting himself in pain because of dysphoria or for the sake of the pain, but those days were growing less frequent. He grinned at Horatio, clutching the back of his neck, and said, “Have you eaten?”

Horatio rolled his eyes and sighed. “I ate this morning.”

“Doesn’t count,” said Hamlet. “You don’t let that count for me, so it doesn’t count for you either.”

“I have an excuse,” said Horatio. “I was busy with schoolwork. Have _you_ eaten?”

“Well,” said Hamlet, and Horatio laughed and ruffled his hair. They were both a mess in their own sometimes-overlapping ways, but together they managed to keep each other alive. “I was waiting for you. On purpose. I definitely didn’t forget. I was thinking we could go out somewhere tonight, together.” Horatio was still laughing, one hand on Hamlet’s shoulder, and Hamlet shoved him gently. “I’m making a romantic gesture, you unappreciative bastard.”

“As you say, my lord,” said Horatio mockingly, kissing him lightly on the corner of his mouth. “As you say.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ghosts That We Knew by Mumford & Sons.  
> I'm @bronanlynch on tumblr; come talk to me about revenge tragedy and the cathartic value of angst with a happy ending.


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